The Lyre of Apollo
by SinnamonDumpling
Summary: "What is all this?" Lyra jolted to see Sirius Black standing beside the bowtruckle's tree, his face as sullen and as pale as last night. It somehow paled further and he fell backwards with a shout of pure madness as coldness swept over her again. Her eyes bulged. A rotten hand grasped her shoulder. The screaming of Frank and Alice Longbottom filled her head.


The screech of a bird woke Lyra Black from her light slumber. She leapt from the dining room table, heart pounding, and went out into the ominously lit corridor. Kreacher was muttering something behind her. She didn't care; fear was enveloping her. Wand poised forwards, she sprang and flung the ancient door open, and was blasted with ice-cold air. A light flurry of snow was falling, gracing her pale hands with tiny spots of sharp prickles. The night was peaceful. However, this was ignored by her as something perched beside the black-spiked fence of the nearby park was distracting her. A hippogriff. And not just any hippogriff. Buckbeak the hippogriff, the hippogriff that was supposed to be dead.

Someone was dismounting the not-so-dead hippogriff, this someone a not-so-captured prisoner. He didn't see her. His sullen eyes darting into the night. Hers remained firmly locked on him, a stranger she hardly knew except for cruel whispers.

"Uncle Sirius?" She croaked.

His eyes darted again, onto her, confused and mad eyes. A tense silence followed. She slipped her wand back into her pocket and lunged forward to hug him tightly. He tensed up. Not having hugged anyone in so long and only just meeting another that night who cared for him as deeply was, he thought, quite draining. She didn't let go, despite not knowing him at all. He was a _Black_. He was _family_. That's all she needed in that moment. They awkwardly remained like that, neither wanting to stay but not wanting to let go. The snow grew heavier, small white balls plopping onto the tarmac around them. Sirius shivered.

Without a word, Lyra lead him towards Grimmauld Plaice. Questions would come later. Right now her strange, murderous uncle was on the run. A small squawk behind her reminded of the other fugitive. She twisted her body around and gently bowed her head to Buckbeak, he repeated the motion and followed closely behind them into the grim, ancient house.

The night was a silent one. Lyra cooked him a simply meal and offered him some spare clothes. She didn't push or press him. He would still be fragile, she knew, spending so long without company, with being trapped within your own mind...one craves human contact but are also repulsed by it. So she left him to his own healing and went to bed. Kreacher stood at the bottom of the staircase, his wrinkles scrunched into a frown.

"Mistress is allowing him to stay?"

Monotone or not, the judgement was in his hoarse voice.

"Yes he is," she spoke firmly, "and he's your proper master, after all, he's older than me."

Kreacher blinked at her indifferently. "Mistress is Kreacher's mistress."

"Not anymore," she replied. And then, she moved past him to go to bed. She wasn't fearful of Sirius Black. If he wanted to kill her he could try. She didn't fear death anymore. So, with her back pressed against the backboard of the Black four-poster bed, she fell into another light sleep.

Waking early the next morning, she stumbled out of bed and lazily dressed herself into a plain, crinkled white shirt and black trousers and went to do her usual routine. Her short black hair stood up in random places, floating not-so-gracefully, and she attempted to flatten it while stumbling down the staircase and into the kitchen. Lyra made a cup of tea and sat down to read the _Daily Prophet_ that poked through the letterbox. Nothing stood out as particularly useful or interesting, purposefully avoiding a Rita Skeeta article, her eyes scammed an excerpt about Sirius Black still being at large and Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had apparently shooed away the dementors placed at the school. _How very like him_ , she thought.

Kreacher popped into the space beside her.

"What is it?" She said exasperatedly without her eyes leaving the newspaper.

"Master isn't awake."

"Clearly so."

A cruel gleam glowed in his beady eyes. "Should Mistress wish for Kreacher to wake him?"

Lyra looked down at him. The house-elf flinched back slightly. " _Leave him be_ ," She ordered.

"Of course, Mistress," he answered, deflated, and scuttled away to know doubt keep the painting of his grandmother happy. At least he was out of her way. Discarding the _Daily Prophet_ to one side and waving her wand to clean away the cup, she made her way into the corridor. A loud thud above her head made her pause. It was such a force some dust sprinkled from the ceiling. She listened silently but there were no more sounds of movement. Perhaps Kreacher was 'accidentally' dropping things to cause a reaction out of her, again. The house-elf was an odd one.

Ever since she had become the mistress of the house, not by choice though, she found Kreacher would purposefully be clumsy just so she would punish him. She never did out of pity for the house-elf. Despite his cruel words during her childhood she was not bitter towards him. His company, not matter how cold, had once been her saviour.

With a heavy sigh, she strolled towards the basement door and swung it open. She made sure it was firmly shut behind her before she cautiously descended down the slippery stone steps. Lyra came to an iron door, one originally designed to be the treasury of the House of Black, but now served a better purpose. It was embroidered with the House of Black Emblem with black snakes weaving in and out of it. She caressed the tip of her wand around the arch of the emblem, the locks clunking and groaning until a beam of light peaked through a gap between the stone wall and the door. Heaving it open, sunlight and a piercing squawk greeted her. A smile warmed her cheeks as a copper-coloured hippogriff flapped its elegant wings playfully. She bowed low, the hippogriff echoing the movement before galloping off to find its friends.

Lyra set to work.

She cut up the individual foods while mentally having a checklist ready. The beam of sunlight came from a large floating orb above her head, suspended, the radiating warmth a blessing compared to the bitter coldness that engulfed Grimmauld Plaice. With her hands filled with buckets, she slowly made her way through the miniature zoo. Hippogriff, thestrels, red caps, hinkypunks, troublesome nifflers, grindylows and one lonely bow trickle clinging to its tree. Lyra finally dropped the empty buckets, her arms aching, and walked up to the tree with a smirk. Tiny, beady Black eyes blinked accusingly at her.

"I told you I can't get you some friends. I'm sorry but I'm lucky the Ministry is even allowing me to study the creatures here already." The bowtruckle poked its little green tongue at her and defiantly climbed to a higher branch. Lyra shook her head, "honestly, anyone would think I'm running a daycare here."

However, a small sense of dread filled her chest. Just off from the main zoo was the brown flap of a tent, snow bellowed out of it in great gasps, whispering. She slowly stumbled towards it and pulled the flap aside. Coldness seeped into her soul. The Dementor let out a raspy breath and turned slowly to face her. She shivered, but bravely stepped further within the snowy space.

"Al-alright, we have a deal. Only for so long," she stuttered, already hearing the buzzing. The buzzing was more like a high-pitched whistle, a kettle nearing its boiling point. And then the screams. The haunting screams, male and female, begging for death. Then it stopped. The Dementor moved away silently to the other end of the tent. Lyra gasped out a relieved sigh and staggered outside.

At least she wouldn't have to do that for another few days. Out of her pocket she pulled out a half-melted chocolate frog and nibbled on it. Warmth entered her again, swirling in her chest and stomach alike.

" _What is all this_?"

Lyra jolted to see Sirius Black standing beside the bowtruckle's tree, his face as sullen and as pale as last night. It somehow paled further and he fell backwards with a shout of pure madness as coldness swept over her again. Her eyes bulged.

A rotten hand grasped her shoulder. The screaming of Frank and Alice Longbottom filled her head.

* * *

 **I don't know what this is but it's been annoying my brain since I reread the Harry Potter books recently. This is very very VERY AU as you will see if I do even add to this.**

 **Take it all with a grain of salt, and tell me if it's even worth pursuing really.**


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